


An Immoral Act of Morality

by Validity_For_Dissonance



Category: Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9810233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Validity_For_Dissonance/pseuds/Validity_For_Dissonance
Summary: Book based | A missing scene that takes place during The Vile Village. Violet sneaks into prison in attempt to help Jacques escape.





	

At a night dark and dreary, hours after the sun has set down the barren horizon and colored the sky with a widely-spanning orange hue; the black fowls migrated to their nocturnal destination and colonized the long-aching, desolate tree; the village people turned cosily in their respective beds, sighing with contentment at having their responsibilities alleviated by three orphans and their conscience mollified by a set of arbitrary laws; and the two younger Baudelaire children fell into an uneasy slumber, unaware of their sister's daring intent.

Violet Baudelaire stands beneath the clouding crescent moon, shivering in her tattered dark dress, in front of a grim prison.

Her heart pounds loudly in hear ears, yet silently all around her. Her fear is her own and is not shared by another entity; she knows that very well. The dark ribbon envelopes her hair with assuring familiarity. With numb fingers, she swiftly traces her accompanying equipments, one by one, as she goes over her plan in her head yet again.

_Enter the prison ward, navigate Jacques' cell, fashion a suitable lock-pick, escape into the night with Klaus and Sunny._

If only it is that easy. She knows it is not, but does not dare contemplate the overarching frightening possibilities lest they halt her.

The shuddering breath that escapes Violet's lips is too loud for her anticipating ears. She grips the small, metallic rod in her pocket and advances. The door does not creak when she nudges it open and it is a small blessing that warms her frozen chest, if only a little. It is dead black. Her eyes skirt to and fro, alert for a movement that does not come. Her steps are soft and careful, her sight is clearing gradually as she becomes a shadow among shadows.

There is a sound and Violet's heart lurches. She turns sharply in its direction, preparing for the worst. It is not threatening, she soon realizes. It is quiet and sad.

Violet proceeds, ever so carefully, eyes softening as she stands stagnant in front of the cell of a weeping man. With the feeble aid of whatever moonlight is allowed to seep through the chambers, she reads the harsh scribble on the parchment that hangs on the stone wall near the cell; Count Olaf. But Violet knows the detainee is unfortunately not the holder of the namesake.

She involuntarily sucks in her breath and the weeping halts. As Jacques turns to face his visitor, Violet is struck by the reality of what she is about to do. I am breaking a person out of prison.

But it is too late to have second thoughts; too late to turn back now. Violet stares at the shocked visage of a man she has never known and wonders fleetingly what it was he has witnessed to have his eyes painted with so many shades of sorrow. She wonders what it took for them to pertain such depth that makes blue seem black.

His mouth hangs agape and a plethora of emotions warp his features. In the end, he utters a shaken _Violet Baudelaire_.

She does not inquire as to how he knows her name— or rather her identity, along with her siblings, though the question has burned inside her head the entirety of the morning, but instead her ground is made more resolute and she makes quickly towards the lock, "I'm getting you out of here," she whispers with composure she does not feel.

The meaning behind her words bear a delayed comprehension in his disquieted mind, and for a moment, all he hears is the voice of Violet Baudelaire. As confusion clears, he shakes his head with perturbed frequency and his hand shoots to halt her fiddling ones, "no, Violet, no."

She looks at him with confused and pleading eyes, "there is not much time!" she whispers urgently.

"You must leave here instantly!" he whispers with the same intensity, "Officer Luciana will be back momentarily, and if she finds you, I fear you will suffer most dire consequences."

But she does not heed his warning and he wonders if she heard him at all. The gears in her mind are whirring at top speed, making quick deductions and decisions. She realizes that there must be no one standing guard if Jacques feared the return and not the emergence of the dreadful officer, and so, with a flick of a stone and a spark that ignites, she lights the forsaken lantern that sits on a cleave along the stoned wall and holds its heavy weight in her shaking hand. A focused frown warps her delicate features, the light harsh against her face.

Jacques sighs exasperatedly and peers with undisguised apprehension behind the young inventor into the shifting shadows that form by the flickering fire. The clang of the metals is strident against the dead of silence. He looks at the girl before him, who is growing more and more anxious by the minute, and his disposition softens.

When she is made despondent by her inability to make quick work of picking the lock, she sits on the ground and places the sole source of light on her right. Violet licks her lips and surveys the equipments she has picked up in haste from Hector's workshop, her mind connecting and building, scouring for information she has picked up from various mechanical books in the recesses of her memory and adjusting the details to fit her predicament.

For a while, neither Jacques nor Violet says a word; it is merely desperation that speaks, intermediated by the ticking of an invisible clock.

Jacques takes a seat on the cold floor opposite Violet in his small cell and searches her eyes to beg her to stop; abort this fruitless mission to save a stranger, but she cannot be found. Silently, he marvels at the striking similarity between her and her mother; indeed she looks like a replica of the deceased woman at that age, except that Violet is taller and more angular, and while Beatrice glowed with an enchanting beam and had eyes forever searching for adventure, Violet held an air of calm and rationality; her eyes weary but wise. He smiled wistfully, the thought of Beatrice instantly bringing about an image of his own brother.

If she will not be enticed with fear for her safety, he will speak in her diction of choice— logic.

"It is a futile endeavor, young miss Baudelaire," he says, his voice kind and quiet. "This particular lock has been designed in the shape of a severed ear, symbolizing the demurral of alleged delinquents to the obedience of the instigated law; incidentally or so it seems, it bears reference to Van Gogh— who in fact severed his ear in an episode of mania— in an apparent, unfounded jibe at the sanity of said delinquents, as if being compared to a bona fide artist is insulting by any means," his utterance comes in a single breath though he does not fall short of it.

Violet does not raise her head, but her hands halt their work.

"And thus, not only is the manufacturing of a suitable key very difficult, but by the added factor that the designer of the original key felt it necessary to include to the process a sequence of tappings into the keyhole, in a mimicry of the first verse of a celebrated 19th century _Weihnachtslied_ , by the means of Morse code, the attempt itself is rendered futile."

Jacques does not anticipate the transparency endowed to the girl in front of him by the treacherous tears that fill her eyes, but as she looks up, he is abated. Violet's brown eyes glow; the fire from the lantern setting them alight, not with emotions of fierceness, but rather with a kindled sorrow that has been brewing inside her too young heart for too long. Her shoulders are slumped and her gaze is disarming. He feels in that moment that their ages are reversed.

"It is not fair," comes out a broken whisper, and with it, the first tear makes its descent.

His mouth opens and shuts, and he cannot meet her eyes any longer.

Violet's embarrassment at her open vulnerability is pushed to the back of her mind, and the child she knows she is surfaces for the first time in long, long months.

"You are innocent," the air easily carries her feeble voice, but it is a wonder it does not disperse it into incoherency, "Why should you die for what you didn't do? It's not fair…" she trails off and so do her tears. Her next syllable is smothered by an invisible weight upon her chest, and it comes off as a chocked sob, "this is all our fault."

Jacques lets out a watery sigh of his own as he watches the girl clutch herself with painful intensity, attempting to suppress any other sobs that rise to her throat. A misfortune of his is his intense empathy, and he realizes he feels more sorry for the stranger he has only heard about until tonight than for his dying self.

He reaches a hand through the bars to cradle her frozen, wet cheek and attempts a reassuring smile. Violet initially flinches at the contact, unused to affection, and looks up to meet his eyes. Doleful, frightened browns meet tired, serene blues.

He utters his words carefully and with assuring gentleness, "it is not your fault."

Violet seems disbelieving, yet a more desperate desire for her fears to be abated shape her disposition and she listens on.

"You did not beget any of the dreadful things that happened to you," he continues, wiping resurgent tears, "you are as much of a victim as I am. Except that, unlike me, you are undeserving of punishment."

At this, she furrows her eyebrows and retreats from his hold. "You are undeserving of punishment as well," she exclaims.

Jacques shakes his head sadly, his lips retaining a smile, "my dear, I am nowhere as innocent as you believe me to be," he rests his gaze on the ground, perhaps fearing her reaction. "I may not be guilty of Count Olaf's crimes, but I am guilty of my own."

"But…" Violet starts, "surely they are not of the same magnitude as Olaf's. You're not a bad person," she inwardly cringes at her ineloquent reasoning, but does not shy away from her predilection. It is true, her mind insists, he's not a bad guy.

But then why does he still refuse to look at her and confirm her judgement?

She waits, albeit her increasing impatience and frustration, growing with the nagging thought of so little time, no time at all.

"I have," he says at last, his articulate tongue seemingly tangled, "done bad things. Things that measure up to Olaf's horrendous deeds."

"But…" Violet begins again, only this time, her thoughts betray her and refuse to compress themselves into speech. She is unsure of what they are at all. All she can readily make out is emotions, and that adds to her frustration. Countenance has been taken away from her in many ways in one night alone.

"I may create excuses for myself; ones along the lines of 'I had to; there was no other choice; it was for a good reason', but at a certain point you realize that the best of reasons in your perspective, fall incredibly short in that of those suffering on the other end," he pauses to gauge her reaction. At finding her facade detached and attentive, he continues, "you realize… that you have stepped into the shoes of your enemy and your enemy into yours. Who is to say with whom lies the objective right? Is there such a thing at all?"

"There must be," retorts Violet in an ardent whisper. "You said you felt like in those moments, you had no choice. That is very different from those who are truly evil; who enjoy hurting and employ it for the sake of it. You are not one of them."

"Dear Violet, things are never so black and white. The most difficult thing to realize is that your perspective does not shape reality, and that there is always going to be something hidden from your view. You don't truly know why people do what they do. Those who suffered at the end of … what I did, see me nothing more than a criminal. That contrasts significantly with how you, for an example, see me. And how am I to know which perception is correct? I have betrayed my moral code time and time again. At a certain point I have grown tired, and living with myself has grown significantly more difficult," his voice has risen to an impassioned timbre and stray tears fall from his eyes. He wipes at them with haste and exhales a deep breath. "So no, dear Violet. I am not a good person, anymore than my enemy is an evil one. That is the truth of it."

Silence does not soothe that which the sentient fails to acknowledge; it only grows more stifling. Violet is confused and tired, and she does not know how to respond to what Jacques has just confided. Her mind tries desperately to salvage that which she firmly believes in, only to find out she has no strict ethical foundation. Should the time come, will she be capable of committing crimes which she now condemns?

She looks at Jacques and stills her thoughts and judgements. She sees a broken man who is deeply suffering, and the words are out of her mouth before she can process their credibility.

"You are trying to be a good person. That is what really matters," she says, and the different emotions that sweep over Jacques' face are enough to make her shed a few more tears. She knows she must go. Leave him to his death.

 _I have tried. There is nothing I can do_.

But her conscience is not soothed. Violet thinks she can begin to understand Jacques' words.

He smiles at her and reaches to wipe her tears one last time.

There is a faint noise in the distance and both hearts halt for a second. They share a glance and words are unneeded, nor are they sufficient.

Both victims stand. Violet collects her items quickly and returns the lantern to its place after blowing off its light, sending the chambers into leaden darkness.

Footsteps creep closer.

Violet bestows a peck onto Jacques' cheek and stalks off quickly, disappearing where moonlight holds no influence. She promises herself she would try again in the morning to save her friend.

Jacques hopes desperately she is not caught.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea while watching The Grand Budapest Hotel (don't ask for a correlation); I basically thought, 'huh. Ralph Fiennes would make a good Jacques Snicket.' And so, I modeled the character after him. c:
> 
> On a more relevant note, this story takes inspiration from the song Insurgentes by Steven Wilson.
> 
> Also, I did not incorporate the Netflix interpretation of Violet's character (they made her rather excitable, didn't they?), and opted to stay true to book!Violet, who is more quiet, and less exuberant.


End file.
